


Wrapped It up and Sent It

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 00:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13065228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: "I won’t have to,” he reminds her, smirking. “Secret Santa, remember? I’m going to witness you strike out in-person.”It occurs to her, then, that she’s going to have to give Bellamy Blake the best gift there is just to prove him wrong. It’s simultaneously thrilling as it is a terrifying, considering how they had still been snapping at each others heels all of two weeks back. “Maybe,” she says, then in the most nonchalant tone she can muster, “or maybe I’ll knock the socks off said giftee.”Clarke knows that gift-giving is a stressful enough experience as it is, but having to buy a gift for Bellamy Blake just makes it all that much worse, really. (Or: A bellarke secret santa au).





	Wrapped It up and Sent It

****In an ideal world, Clarke would like to think of Secret Santa as a lot less of a stressful affair than it actually is. Cash would make an acceptable gift, for one, and wish lists mandatory. There’d be a ten dollar budget, and said gifts would get delivered right to your doorstep without you having to brave the Christmas crowds once.

And, most importantly, no one would ever have to buy a gift for someone they actively  _ despised _ .

“Let’s be fair here,” Wells reminds her, sounding way more amused than sympathetic. “It’s not like you want the guy dead. I’d say that’s a positive development, if anything.”

She snorts, the sound echoing in the cavernous space of the room as she shifts at the phone under her shoulder, repositioning it. “I think you’re forgetting the part where it’s not a mutual sentiment, considering how he still glares at me every time I walk into a room.”

“Bellamy doesn’t  _ glare _ ,” Wells says, though it’s impossible to miss the reluctance lacing his every word. “He just… looks at you. In a very pointed manner, a lot of the time.”

That’s about as much of an exaggeration it can get, considering the screaming fights they used to get into half the time. Clarke’s pretty sure he hated her on first sight,  _ princess  _ and  _ your highness  _ falling off his lips at every turn while she had thought of him as an obnoxious, cocksure  _ bully _ . Things are better now, but enough damage has been done to make their relationship pretty much impossible to salvage. Their friends have accepted it, by this point, as long as no one murders the other before breakfast on most days.

“Sure,” she manages, beaming with false cheer, “that absolutely sounds like the pinnacle of a healthy, flourishing friendship. I, too, like to picture the various ways in which I can murder you cheerfully and dispose of your body after.”

“Hydrofluoric acid is always a good bet.”

She groans, letting her head fall back with a soft  _ thump  _ against the nearest bookshelf. “You’re not helping.”

“I know,” he admits, sounding a little chagrined. “But I just— I don’t see what the big deal is. This is Bellamy we’re talking about, right? The same Bellamy that spent the entirety of Thanksgiving discussing Vlad the Impaler re-tellings with you?”

She flushes at the memory despite herself, willing a scoff instead. “That’s because he’s against the idea of it,” Clarke grumbles, sliding a copy of _A Christmas Carol_ free. “And he couldn’t just agree-to-disagree on it like a _normal_ person.”

That earns her a muttered response on Wells’s part, something that sounds suspiciously like  _ sounds familiar;  _ the rest of it lost in the sudden sound of footfalls, gaining in volume—

“Wells,” she hisses, lowering her voice surreptitiously, “I have to go.”

“Wait, why—”

She hangs up just as a pair of boots draw up beside her— scuffed and worn and  _ stupidly  _ familiar.

“Your laces are untied,” she scowls, because she’s nothing if not difficult, at the very least.

The look that Bellamy Blake shoots her is unimpressed and amused all at once. “And you’re still here, despite the fact that the library has been closing for the past hour,” he snarks, brows furrowing as he rakes his gaze over her; lingering long over her stained sweats and the greasy mop of hair atop her head.

It’s enough to make her self-conscious, really, but she’ll be damned if she lets  _ him  _ know that. Lifting at her chin, she plops back down onto her perch by the window, grabbing at her textbook. “I got a little distracted,” she says primly, uncapping her highlighter with a pointed  _ click.  _ “But don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair by the time you lock those doors.”

“That’s not the—” he stops, shaking his head abruptly as if to clear it. “Did you even take a shower today, Princess? Or had something to eat?”

She’s prepared for it, but the comment stings all the same anyway. “I’m  _ fine, _ ” she snaps, turning her face back towards her book resolutely. “But if you feel like my presence is stinking up the great sanctity of the library, feel free to drop me an email about it. I’ll donate a bottle of Febreeze next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says gruffly, folding his arms over his chest. Then, clearing his throat, “Now c’mon. You need to go.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she says, staring up at him in complete and utter disbelief. “The library still doesn’t close for a while.”

He’s still looking at her with that stony, implacable expression, though, completely unmoved. “It doesn’t, but I’m kicking you out,” he says curtly, gathering her books into a pile and swooping them into his arms. “You can come back tomorrow, once you’ve stopped resembling an extra from a Walking Dead episode.”

“I’m—  _ hey! _ ”

He’s already halfway down the aisle by the time she catches up to him, nearly stumbling over her own feet in her haste. “This is a total abuse of power,” she huffs, grabbing at the edge of his sleeve to get him to slow down. “You can’t just kick someone out of the library because you don’t  _ like  _ them.”

For a second, she thinks he might want to say something to that, but the look in his eyes shutters away just as quickly. “Report me to Maya, then.”

“She’s home for the holidays and you know it. That’s why  _ you’re  _ in charge, remember?”

“And that means I get to kick out whomever I please,” he says, without missing a beat. “Not that I have all that much options to begin with.”

It’s true that the library is mostly deserted with most people having been done with their finals weeks back, but she’ll be willing to bet an undisclosed amount that Bellamy would have done the same regardless anyway. “Fine,” she snarls, grabbing her books from him just as they step out into the cold, slamming the door shut behind them. “I’m out, now. Happy?”

His lips twitch ever so slightly at that, as if holding back on a smile. “Ecstatic.”

“Of course you are,” she mutters, unzipping her bag and shoving her books unceremoniously in. “You’d do it  _ constantly,  _ if—” she stops short at the sight of the keys dangling from his fingers, the realization that the lights in the library have powered off. “Wait, you’re locking up now?”

“It is midnight,” he says, mild, falling into step next to her. “I did mention that the closing announcements had been playing for past hour, right?”

“But— it’s—”

“Or maybe I just put into consideration the time it’d require to escort your stubborn self out of the door, timed it perfectly, and got you out of the door  _ just _ as the power went out,” he smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Which, if anything, just proves that I’m really fucking stellar at my job, if you’d like to bring that up with Maya.”

She glares, resisting the urge to stomp at her foot at his growing smile; at the triumphant tilt to his chin. “You’re— fucking  _ infuriating,  _ Bellamy Blake.”

“And also exceptionally good at my job, right?”

She marches off before he can say anything else, his presence never lingering far as they trudge their way back to the dorms together; his laughter trailing after her the entire way back.

  
  


+

(The thing is, it’s not like Clarke means to take notice of him. It just sort of happens.

Maybe it’s because he hates her, and that has heightened her awareness of him. Or maybe it’s because he’s just  _ constantly _ hanging around in the same vicinity that she is, which makes him stubbornly conspicuous in her thoughts, but she finds herself paying attention whenever Bellamy Blake comes up anyway.

It’s how she learns that he has a sister, that he pretty much single handedly raised her after his mother left. It’s how she learns that he drives Raven to physical therapy every Wednesday, and that he tutors freshmen in calculus. It’s how she learns that he bails Murphy out of jail whenever he inevitably does something stupid _ ,  _ and that he was once suspended for beating the shit out of someone who commented on Miller’s sexuality.

It’s how she realizes that Bellamy Blake is, above all else, a decent guy. And that makes hating him half the challenge, really.)

  
  


+

Raven is the one who brings it up, during one of their impromptu coffee-runs-turned-lunches.

“So,” she says, in between bites of her donut, “you, sleeping with Bellamy. Thoughts?”

It’s a good thing she’s not mid-sip, or Clarke’s pretty sure that she would have doused Raven’s blouse with the remnants of her mocha frappe. Still, she does send cookie crumbs spraying when she sputters out a hasty, “ _ Raven _ !”

Raven, true to form, remains blissfully unfazed. “You heard me,” she continues, shrugging. “The rest of us won’t be back until after New Year’s, so you guys will be getting some quality time together. I say put it to good use and get some of that sexual tension out of the way.”

She doesn’t actually manage to gape, but it’s a near thing. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“He hates me,” she says, resisting the urge to cast a surreptitious glance around just to make sure he’s not in the vicinity. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything, but the thought of Bellamy overhearing any of this makes her feel strangely nervous. “I told you that he kicked me out of the library yesterday, right? And smirked about it the entire way back to the dorms? And _,_ ” she pauses, partly for dramatic effect and partly because it’s the worst offense of the lot, “he _laughed_ at my Steven Universe socks.”

Raven frowns, brows drawing together almost comically. “Is it the pair with the bug-eyed cartoon characters all over it?”

“I mean,  _ yeah,  _ but—”

“No living human person can look at those and not laugh, Clarke.”

“That’s— not the  _ point! _ ”

“No, the point is that he got you to look up from your book, walked you back to your dorm, and probably held the door open for you after,” she says dryly, arching a brow over at her. “Am I wrong?”

Bellamy  _ did,  _ in fact, hold the door open for her, but she’d rather stick wooden slits under her nails than tell her that. “None of that changes the fact that half of my interactions with him have ended in screaming fights,” she says, pretending to busy herself by shredding her cookies into careful, bite-sized chunks. “It’s just— it wouldn’t work out, okay?” she groans, feeling her cheeks heat, despite herself. “Trust me, any feelings Bellamy Blake has for me are less than friendly.”

There’s a beat as Raven seems to consider that, her expression sobering slightly when she meets finally her gaze. “Maybe so,” she says, nonchalant. “But I think he  _ does _ care about you, you know. He’s just really fucking terrible at showing it.”

She manages an absent noise of acknowledgement at that, rolling her eyes. The thought of Bellamy Blake  _ caring  _ for her is about as unbelievable as they come. “Alright, Holmes,” Clarke teases, nudging at her ankle, “who are you, and what’s with the sudden concern for my love life?”

“It’s the Christmas season,” Raven scowls, folding her arms across her chest. “Don’t blame me for getting all sentimental.”

“I kinda have to, considering you nearly made me choke on my cookie.”

“Fine,” Raven sighs, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder as she grabs her duffle, rising to her feet. “But let the record show that _I_ wasn’t the one who brought up _feelings_ with regard to Bellamy Blake.” Her smile goes mischievous at that, quickly dancing out of the way when she attempts to smack at her shoulder, “That’s all on you, Clarke Griffin.”

“... you set me up for that one, and you know it.”

All that earns her is a squeeze to her shoulder, the motion almost sympathetic. “Or maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something, Clarke.”

  
  


+

Bellamy’s already there by the time she walks in; seated behind one of the desks with his head bent over a book, chewing the cap of his pen.

The smart thing to do would be to find a desk far, far away from him. Preferably by the window, where she’ll be able to make a quick escape, or even by the stairwell that leads out to the underground tunnels that no one has used since 1985.

Still, she hesitates, despite herself.

It’s just— he looks  _ lonely,  _ somehow, surrounded by rows and rows of empty desks with nothing but a book for company. It dawns on her, then, that she never thought to ask why he’s staying in the dorms over the holidays, or if there’s anyone he’s celebrating Christmas with. The thought of it sends a pang of sympathy through her, makes her wonder if he’d want to commiserate together, instead, or—

He chooses that exact moment to look up, his gaze landing on her instantly. “Clarke?”

It’s the first time she’s heard him say her name without any sort of animosity whatsoever, so it takes a second to comprehend that he’s talking  _ to  _ her. Blinking, she shifts her books from one arm to the other, managing an awkward wave. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, after a beat. For a split second, she thinks she catches something akin to  _ nerves _ flash across his face before it flickers away, replaced by his usual unruffled arrogance. Folding his arms across the back of his head, he tilts his chair back, brow cocked, “Taken a shower today, at least?”

“Several, actually,” she says, in the most saccharine sweet voice she can muster. Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she strides over, dropping into the empty seat across from his. “I even used soap and all the bell and whistles today, in case you were wondering.”

That pulls a smirk out of him, the tense set to his shoulder relaxing just another fraction. “Aw. All for me, Princess?”

“I don’t think quite that highly of you, unfortunately.”

“Right, my mistake.”

“It always is,” she says, ducking at her chin so he can’t see her smile. “You have any upcoming finals?”

He nods, tapping his pen against the edge of his book rhythmically. “Latin studies. I’ll be done by the time the twenty-first rolls around.”

“Same, I’ll be done by the twenty-third.” She bites her lip, considers letting the question slide for all of a minute before deciding against it, anyway. “No holiday plans?”

It’s impossible to miss the way his face clouds over at that, the muscle by his jaw throbbing once. “Nope,” he says finally, glancing up at her. There’s an edge to his voice this time when he asks, “What, no plans to visit the McMansion for you either?”

“No,” she says curtly, grabbing her coffee cup and taking a sip mostly just so she has something to do with her hands. “Not that you have to be an  _ ass  _ about it or anything.”

He has the decency to look a little embarrassed by that, at least. “Noted,” he says, and she can feel his gaze against her cheek when she lifts at her cup once, downing the rest of it. “I probably should remind you that you can’t drink that in here, but I think you might actually bite my head off.”

“I’m currently surviving on two hours of sleep and one stale Pop-Tart, so you’re probably right.”

He gives a small hum of acknowledgement at that, his mouth curling up into the smallest of smiles. It’s surprisingly  _ shy _ , a little hopeful, even— an expression she never thought she’d witness on Bellamy Blake. “The breakfast of champions, right?”

“Exactly,” she says brightly, trying to tamp down the bloom of warmth surging down to her toes at the sight of his  _ stupid _ smile. “You should try it,” she manages, and she’s glad that her voice comes out even, despite the direction of her thoughts. “It might help you with whatever it is you’re working on right now.”

“Flash cards,” he grimaces, drumming his fingers on top of a haphazard stack. “It’s a fucking waste of time.”

“Only if you don’t organize them right.”

They go on like this for a little while, and she eventually convinces him to let her re-do his cards according to her system. He makes it up to her by quizzing her whilst she does it, even summarizing the important points for her by scribbling them down in the margins of her textbook in his big, loopy scrawl. There’s an hour or two when they both get a little sidetracked— especially after she brings up the merits of e-readers as compared to paper— but he eventually steers them back on track.

It’s…  _ nice _ . Companionable, even. She can feel the warmth of his ankle bumping up against hers from time to time; can hear the low, even cadence of his humming when he gets absorbed in his work. She’s never been much of a group study person, but studying with Bellamy is strangely  _ easy  _ even with the supposed hostility between them.

She’s outlining her chapter on the immune system when he breezes back in from his bathroom break, tossing something towards her from across the table before settling in his seat. “Here.”

The scent hits her before anything else, of cinnamon and butter and  _ bread _ . Raising a brow over at him, she grabs at it, grinning when she spots the croissant nestled within the bag. “Now this is surprising,” she says, tilting her head in mock-contemplation, “weren’t you just on my case for drinking  _ coffee  _ in the library, Bellamy Blake?”

“They gave me the wrong order,” he huffs, flipping at his textbook and avoiding her gaze pointedly. “Eat it if you want. I’ll throw it out otherwise.”

“You don’t like  _ croissants _ ?”

A grunt, though she can’t help but notice how the tips of his ears seem to redden slightly at that. “No.”

“Who doesn’t like croissants?”

“Just eat the damn bread, Clarke.”

He’s still not looking at her, so she allows herself a smile, kicking lightly at his ankle when fidgets in his seat, clearly trying not to make eye contact. “Well if you insist,” she sighs, scrunching up the bag and taking a bite. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

“It’s no big deal,” he mutters, sinking lower in his seat. Like this, it’s impossible to make out his face, but in the glimpse she catches, she swears it looks like he’s smiling, too.

  
  


+

It becomes routine, after that, for them to study together.

He’s almost always earlier than her, glasses sliding low on his face and tapping his foot absently to a beat only he can hear. She brings the morning coffee and pastries, mostly to make up for being late, and he’ll grumble about the amount of sugar she puts in his coffee while she snipes at him for complaining, and it’ll be a whole  _ production,  _ somehow, resolved only when he offers to buy next time. Sometimes, he insists on getting actual food, so they go to nearby diners or raid the vending machines and they’ll eat with their offerings balanced on their knees, pressed thigh-to-thigh and his breath warm on her cheek.

“I don’t know why I keep letting you do this,” he mutters, after she returns with her arms full of various lovingly curated, artery-clogging snacks. “Your nutritional health is terrible as it is. I shouldn’t be encouraging it.”

She pokes her tongue out at him in retaliation, flopping down onto their perch over by the windows. “So what I’m getting is that you’re saying you’d rather pay ten bucks for a scone?”

“That’s how much I earn in an hour wrapping presents for disgruntled parents, so I’m going to have to go with a resounding  _ no _ .”

“I rest my case,” she says smugly, sliding her nail under the edge of a bag of Doritos. “What’s your poison, Cool Ranch or Diablo?”

He sighs, relenting. “The former,” he says, accepting the proffered bag with clear disgruntlement. It gets worse when she rips open her own bag with her teeth, orange dust settling into her palm as she shakes a few out. “God,” he laughs, sounding disgusted and fascinated all at once, “you have the most questionable taste, you know that?”

“Please,” she says dismissively, popping her thumb in her mouth to lick the rest of the crumbs off, “I’ll have you know that I have excellent taste, okay? In all my years of gift-giving and recommendation-providing, I’ve heard no complaints.”

“That’s what you think.”

“That’s what I  _ know, _ ” she insists, nudging at his ribs with enough force for him to make a small noise of protest. “Ask anyone, and you’ll see.”

“I won’t have to,” he reminds her, smirking. “Secret Santa, remember? I’m going to witness you strike out in-person.”

It occurs to her, then, that she’s going to have to give Bellamy Blake the  _ best  _ gift there is just to prove him wrong. It’s simultaneously thrilling as it is a terrifying, considering how they had still been snapping at each others heels all of two weeks back. “Maybe,” she says, then in the most nonchalant tone she can muster, “or maybe I’ll knock the socks off said giftee.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his chin in mock-contemplation. “Any idea who that could be?”

She purses her lips together to hold back on a smile, shrugging. “No clue.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” she mimics, reaching over to swipe at his bag of Doritos, eliciting a surprised yelp on his part. It’s a good distraction, if anything, and effective, if the scowl twisting at his lips is any indication.

“Thanks,” he gripes, snatching the bag back from her nimbly. “I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but taking food from someone who has an  _ eight _ hour work shift after this is equivalent to stealing candy from a baby.”

“But it also guarantees me a spot on the naughty list,” she says teasingly, “so I say it’s worth it.”

He flushes at that, and she wonders what it says about her psyche that the sight of it sets off a storm of butterflies in her chest. “Hey,” she says impulsively, hitching her knees up to her chest. “What time do you get off work?”

The look he shoots her is wary but curious, all the same. “Ten.”

“Oh. You don’t get any breaks in between?”

“I get one at seven fifteen,” he says, drumming his fingers idly against his knee. It almost seems like he wants to say something about that, but instead he settles for a jerky shrug instead, looking away. “About an hour long. Why?” 

She makes a noncommittal noise in response, seizing a few more Doritos from his bag. “I was thinking that I could make this injustice up to you,” she says, working to keep her voice level despite the rapid racing of her pulse, “I’ll drop by with dinner? And we can hang out after, if you don’t have any plans.”

He blinks, the surprise on his face giving way to something unreadable. “Sure,” he says, after a beat, the edges of his lips quirking up. “If you insist.”

“I definitely do,” she tells him, grinning at the litany of swears he utters when she makes another swipe at the bag, dislodging it from his grip and sending chips scattering all over the ground.

  
  


+

Logically, Clarke knows that it’s irrational to be nervous. She’s the one who suggested this in the first place, and it’s not like it’s a date, or anything. It’s like hanging out with a work colleague, almost, just in a slightly more casual setting. It’ll be  _ easy _ . Chill, even.

“Are you wearing eyeliner?” Raven demands, the rest of her response dissolving into incomprehensible jumble before the video unfreezes itself, bringing her back up to speed. “And an outfit that requires an actual  _ zipper  _ to function?”

Her first instinct is to deny it, really, but Raven’s like a dog with a bone, and she has no intention of dragging out this conversation when she’s already ten minutes late. “Kind of,” she hedges, managing a nonchalant shrug. “I just— you know. Felt like it.”

“You felt like it.”

“Exactly.”

A beat as Raven seems to absorb that, her eyes narrowing into slits. “And normally I’d believe you, except I can totally see a takeout bag from Chick-fil-A sticking out of your tote,” she says, grinning, the expression on her face going teasing, “Clarke Griffin, are you going on a  _ date _ ?”

“What? No _ , _ ” she groans, running a palm over her face to hide the flush rising to her cheeks. The thought of it is enough to get her all nauseous again, which is not something she wants to relive, really. “I’m just dropping off some dinner for Bellamy, okay? He has a long shift.”

Another pause, this one longer than the last. “Bellamy,” Raven says, her brow knitting, “as in Bellamy  _ Blake _ ?”

“No, the other Bellamy we know,” she says, with as much sarcasm she can muster. It doesn’t faze Raven in the least, if the way she’s wiggling her eyebrows is any indication. “Look, I have to go,” she sighs, pointedly avoiding making eye contact. “I’m already late as it is.”

“For your  _ date. _ ”

“It’s— forget it,” she mumbles, hefting her bag over her shoulder. “ _ Bye,  _ Raven.”

“Bye, babe. And no offense, but I told you so.”

“You’re the worst,” she huffs, jabbing at the end call button before dropping her phone back into her bag. Accepting Raven’s FaceTime request clearly wasn’t the smartest move on her part, but at least it provided her with the distraction she needed during her walk over.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she ducks through the gates of the Christmas village, resisting the urge to get on her toes to look out for him. The crowds are as brutal as expected, and he won’t be able to spot her through the throng, let alone be looking out for her. She’ll need to find the gift-wrapping booth, first, then maybe—

“Clarke!”

She looks up, spotting him almost immediately, and she’s not sure if she’s entirely imagining the way he seems to brighten a fraction at that. It could be pure coincidence, of course, but she can’t help grinning at the thought that he _might_ have been keeping an eye out for her arrival. Giving a quick wave, she plunges back into the crowd, crossing the space between them.

He slides out from behind the counter at her approach, smile fucking  _ blinding _ and dusting a sprinkling of glitter off his hands. “You came.”

The sight of Bellamy Blake  _ smiling  _ at her— genuine and warm and  _ open  _ in a way she has never witnessed— makes her knees go weak. “Yeah,” she croaks out, wetting her lips surreptitiously. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“It was a tossup, considering the number of casual references you make to hating this sort of gimmicky Christmas shit.”

“Well, I  _ did _ steal your Doritos.”

“Which, as we all know, is one of the worse offences there is.”

“Hence my making it up to you!” she protests, folding her arms across her chest. It’s impossible to keep her smile from showing at this point, though she’s not sure she has to, considering his own. Clearing her throat, she raises her chin, putting on the most solemn voice she can muster. “I come bearing gifts, Bellamy Blake.”

He raises an eyebrow over at her, his expression skeptical. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, digging through her coat pockets until she finds a mint. Then, before he can react, she reaches over, dropping it into his outstretched palm with aplomb. “Really.”

There’s a second where he just sort of  _ stares  _ before he seems to compose himself, a snort escaping. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head ruefully. “You really know how to spoil a guy, Princess.”

“Anytime,” she grins, and she thinks she might like the way he says it now— soft and wry and  _ fond,  _ like he can’t help himself. It’s possible that she wants to hear him say it exactly like this for a long, long time. “Now c’mon,” she tells him, grabbing the takeout bag out from inside her tote and brandishing it at him teasingly, “we have a feast to get through.”

  
  


+

They both agree that braving through the crowds to get to a table seems like too much effort, so Bellamy brings her out back instead. It’s where they store the unused Christmas decorations, apparently, but at least it’s private.

He makes a small noise of surprise when she hands him his chicken club, quickly morphing into a laugh. “You remembered?”

“Uh, that you’re the same person who once went to three different malls to get a chicken sandwich because of their, quote-unquote,  _ vastly _ superior chicken? Yeah,” she says, plucking a fry out of the bag. “We nearly got kicked out of that one McDonald’s, remember? Because you didn’t understand the concept of no outside food?”

“It’s hard trying to be subtle considering I couldn’t stop gawking at the way you eat your pancakes,” he grumbles, pegging an onion ring over at her, “who douses it in ice cream?”

She squeaks, swatting the projectile away mid-air. It lands half-heartedly around the antlers of a badly painted reindeer, making him burst into laughter— and if Bellamy’s smile is enough to make her a little lightheaded, his laugh is about ten times as potent.

Turning away, she ducks at her chin, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you remember that either.”

He’s still smiling when she looks up at him, his gaze soft in a way that makes her breath catch. “Yeah, well,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “We’ve known each other for a while, now.”

She gives a short laugh, reaching over to nudge at his ankle with hers. “We  _ hated  _ each other for a while, now.”

“Not as long as you’d think,” he says suddenly, his hand going up to the back of his neck self-consciously; almost  _ embarrassed.  _ “I mean— just— don’t look at me like that,” he huffs, flushing. “I’m trying to tell you that I may have judged you a little too quickly back then, okay?”

She can’t stop smiling _ ,  _ now, resting her chin against her knees. “Can I get that in writing?”

“Shut up,” he says, but she senses no heat in his words anyway. “It was just— hard, I guess. I heard about you even before I knew you. You were the Princess of Ark U, with your stepfather on the school admissions board and your mom in charge of student council and you were just— untouchable.” He stops, running a palm over his face. This time, when he speaks, it’s soft. “I worked my whole life to get here, and you just walked right in.”

There’s a lump in her throat that’s making it hard to swallow, but she manages somehow. “Yeah,” she says, releasing a shaky breath. “I can understand that.”

“Doesn’t excuse the way I behaved towards you, though. I’m—”

“I didn’t make it easy either,” she interjects, shooting him a wry smile. “Let’s not forget that I was as much as an ass to you as you were to me.” Still, he doesn’t look all that convinced, so she tries again, “And hey, if it makes you feel any better, it’s not like I speak to them.”

He straightens at that, a frown twisting at his lips. “As in— your parents?”

“As in, my mom and Kane,” she corrects, feeling her face scrunch up instinctively at the thought of it. “We haven’t been in contact since I told them I wanted to minor in art. And it’s  _ stupid,  _ because it’s not like I’m giving up on med school, but getting them to listen to  _ reason  _ is just…” she trails off, feeling a hot rush of tears rise up behind her eyelids before she tamps them down, composing herself. “Anyway,” she says brightly, shrugging, “I guess that’s why I’m not going home for the holidays this year.”

It’s not pity in his eyes when he looks at her, but she can feel the solemnity in his voice when he says, “That’s fucked up, Clarke.”

“Maybe,” she manages, pretending to busy herself with the stray thread dangling off her sweater so she doesn’t have to look at him. “I didn’t tell you this to make you feel sorry for me, you know.”

This time, she senses his smile rather than sees it. “I know.”

“I just— I wanted to tell you. Because we’re friends, right?”

She can feel the graze of his fingers when he reaches over, tugging at the thread tightly and pulling it loose gently. The touch is light, fleeting; but she finds herself shivering all the same.

“Yeah,” he smiles, drawing back. “We are.” Then, unwaveringly, “I’m glad you told me.”

“Yeah, well,” she gives a short laugh, the sound watery more than anything, “it’s the damn burgers. Really gets you to open up, you know?” 

“See, I told you these burgers were vastly superior for a reason. You just wouldn’t listen.”

She snorts, swiping a fry from him. “Sure, Bellamy. If you say so.”

“I know so.”

“Sure,” she says, unwrapping her own burger. It’s gone a little cold, but it’s definitely not inedible. “So, what about you?” she asks, bumping at his ankle with hers. “Why aren’t you heading back for the holidays this year?”

He stiffens a little at that, but relaxes just as quickly when she leans her leg back against his; a reassuring weight. “I was planning on it,” he says, sighing. “My mom left when I was in high school, but it’s tradition for me and my sister to go back to my Grandma’s place over Christmas.”

She blinks, lowering her burger away from her mouth. “So… why aren’t you?”

He gives a jerk of his shoulder, the motion half-hearted. “My sister needed the money for a plane ticket to Colorado.” Then, at her plain confusion, he adds, “It’s where her boyfriend’s family lives. She wanted to spend her holidays with them this year.”

“And uh, no offense, but she couldn’t buy her  _ own  _ ticket?”

“She’s in  _ high school, _ ” he tells her, though she can’t help but notice the small smile twitching at his lips. “I think a plane ticket is a little out of her price range.”

“But,” an incredulous noise escapes before she can help herself, the words bubbling out, “that’s just— a little selfish, don’t you think?”

He looks away, though not fast enough that she doesn’t catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes. “That’s just Octavia,” he says finally, picking up his burger once more. “Besides, it’s no big deal. I can always head back next year.”

It feels impossible to find the right thing to say in this situation, but there’s an ache in her chest that won’t go away; an ache that presses her to want to say something. An ache  _ for  _ him— a boy who doesn’t know how to stop giving, a boy who loves so deeply that he’d do everything in his power to let his sister know that. “That’s fucked up, Bellamy.”

“It’s not  _ that  _ bad.”

“Bellamy.”

He laughs, the sound soft as he ducks at his head, finally relenting. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head, “that’s fucked up.”

  
  


+

 

**Bellamy Blake:** T-minus fifteen minutes.

**Bellamy Blake:** if I don’t make it, tell Miller I love him 

 

**Clarke Griffin:** it’s ONE final, you big baby

**Clarke Griffin:** you’re gonna kill it 

 

**Bellamy Blake:** hopefully 

  
  


+

Clarke knows for a fact that Bellamy is the type to spend every last possible minute in the exam hall— mostly just to check and re-check his paper for possible mistakes, that  _ nerd _ — so she only makes her way over a full ten minutes after his paper ends.

His floor is even more deserted than hers, which makes finding his room a breeze. The music drifting from his room is enough of a giveaway, though she’ll admit that the sketch of the Pantheon hanging from his whiteboard helps too.

Stopping by his door, she wipes at her sweaty palms, trying valiantly to calm the racing of her pulse. What she’s about to do feels monumental and fucking  _ terrifying _ all the same, but backing down isn’t an option. It just— it can’t be. Clarke won’t let herself.

She raises her fist to the door before she can change her mind, rapping twice.

He opens it after a beat, surprise quickly giving way to a smile when he spots her. “Hey,” Bellamy grins, leaning up against the frame. “I was just about to text you about dinner. Listen, I know you have a paper in two days, but what do you think about getting some pizza? My treat.”

She can’t help but smile at that, nerves aside. “Pizza? Wow. Someone’s feeling adventurous.”

“I’ll even let you put anchovies on it.”

“That’s generous of you,” she teases, poking him in the ribs. “How about I request for three different kinds of cheese?”

“I mean, I  _ guess _ I’ll live.”

It’s an effort to keep from getting entirely sidetracked, considering how much she likes it when he’s like this— playful and affectionate and  _ stupidly  _ boyish. Clearing her throat, she composes herself, willing her voice to steady. “I’d be all for it, normally, but I’m not sure tonight would work.”

“Oh.” He says, and she’s pretty sure she’s not mistaking the way his face seems to fall at it. “Heading out?”

“No,” she says, and this time, it’s impossible to conceal the slight tremble of her voice. “But you are.”

The pure confusion on his face melts away when she thrusts the ticket out at him, his expression going unreadable as he stares down at it.

“I’m your Secret Santa,” she admits, giving a shaky laugh. “And I know it’s early, but— this seemed apt. Everyone chipped in a little, so I guess it’s not  _ entirely  _ by me, but I called the counter and managed to get you upgraded with my impressive persuasive skills, so there’s that. The earliest flight I could wrangle was six in the morning, tomorrow, but I can help you with packing, too, and—”

“Clarke,” he interrupts, his voice going strangled, “you got me a  _ plane ticket _ .”

“We got you a plane ticket,” she corrects. “I mean, I really couldn’t have done it without everyone else. It’s not that great of a gift, I know, but it feels like something you could really use.”

“Something I could really use?” he breaks off, running a palm over his face. “I’m—  _ Clarke.  _ I don’t—  _ Jesus _ . I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Uh, you can do that by getting your butt in there and packing,” she reminds him, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re aware that your flight leaves in several hours, right?”

He swallows, throat bobbing wildly before he seems to come back to himself. “I know,” he says, inching forward, close enough that she can feel his breath stirring at her hair. “I should, but,” he stops, biting his lip. “I just— no one’s ever done something like this for me before.”

She can feel her eyes fluttering shut almost reflexively at the proximity. “To be fair, it wouldn’t be very practical,” she points out breathlessly. “You do realize that you pay to stay at this dorm, right?”

“Clarke,” he murmurs, his palm coming up to cup at her face; a smile edging its way up his face. “Could you shut up for a second, maybe? I’m trying to tell the girl I like how I feel.”

“Right,” she says, nodding. Then, in the most serious voice she can muster, “I’ll give you guys some privacy—”

He kisses her before she can finish, and she responds just as eagerly, pressing closer and running her hands over his shoulders, the planes of his back. He laughs at her eagerness, his arms tightening around her as they sway a little on the spot, pulling away just far enough so their foreheads touch.

“God,” he whispers, thumb stroking her cheek. “Did I mention that our timing is fucking terrible?”

“It is,” she agrees, rocking forward on her heels to plant another kiss against his lips. “But on the positive side, we have about seven hours to talk about stupid we’ve been.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I think we can manage that. You wanna come in?”

It’s possible that this is the best thing Clarke’s heard all year. “Yeah,” she tells him, feeling his hand slide into hers as he pulls her forward, into his space and then, into his arms, once more. “I’d love to, Bellamy Blake.”


End file.
